These Hands
by SpaceSpirit
Summary: A short piece on each of the boys and their hands.
1. Chapter 1

_A gift for ScribeofRED…because I know how much you love hands, and I felt inspired to write something about them!_

 _This is just a mini character study of each of the boys and their hands. I know, it sounds strange, just give it a go. I do not own any of the characters or the concept, but I love it all the same. Enjoy!_

 _ooooo_

These hands could have been surgeon's hands. Gloved, as they are now, lithe and delicate. Blue fabric is pulled tight over thin fingers. But when he flexes and releases, it's no hindrance. The material is as flexible as his skin. It needs to be flexible too, because these hands move _quickly._ They are as dexterous as his mind, swiping left, right, moving through holograms with an efficiency of someone twice as experienced.

When the gloves come off, the skin beneath is pale. These hands never see enough sunlight, nor are they used to the weight of the world down below. They like to float, to be free of restrictions, a weightless liberation. Scars do not caress these hands – not many at least. But lines do, and John is acutely aware of them. Thousands of miniscule rivers that span his palms like the lines on a map. He's studied all of them, from the wrinkles in each joint to the braided strip that runs right down the middle.

When he clenches his fists, veins shift beneath skin. It is almost translucent, paper-like, _fragile._ It's true; John's hands do look delicate. _He_ looks delicate. But John Tracy is not fragile. No matter what anyone else thinks. For these hands have seen a lot more than they should.

When a brother is falling out of the sky, or trapped beneath the ocean, or stuck in a derelict mine, then they _rely_ on these hands. These fingers pull up statistics, numbers, maps, graphs, they know what to get and how to get it. John needs to multitask. As his hands do one thing, his mind does another.

Sometimes his sinewy fingers are all that stand between saving lives and _not_ saving lives.

Up in space these hands are controlled, they know what they're doing. Down on earth, it takes a while for them to return to that. Sometimes his nails scrape against skin, or his fingers intertwine with one another, especially when surrounded by lots of people. These hands do not yearn for physical contact. They are his hands, and his alone.

These are hands that can hold stars, and memories, and _lives._ They are as graceful as they are resourceful, but one thing they most certainly aren't, is ornamental.

These hands are as smart as the man they belong to.

ooooo

These hands are broad.

It is a word that is often associated with him, and his hands are no exception. They're big, and thick, hardened, and _raw._ Workers hands. Smudges of oil turn his skin dark; streaks embed themselves in the grooves that pattern his skin. A day isn't complete without these hands getting dirty, that's for sure.

If somebody looks at his hands, then they know he's strong. They are right of course; strength is something he can lay claim too. If they touch them, then his skin feels like sandpaper or unfinished stone.

But that isn't what's _truly_ important about them.

Based on appearance, these hands would not be considered gentle. But they _are_ gentle, and patient, and steady _._ At times, they are all that holds this family together. His hands are an extension of his mind, they want to grasp at people's emotions, and they want to be there for those that he loves. Words say little, actions say a lot.

Virgil is grounded in the physical world, and so are his hands. The roughness of them pays tribute to that.

The thing is, even if they look like it, they aren't workers hands at all. Appearance can be deceiving, especially Virgil's appearance. They are healer's hands. Healer of emotion, of wounds, or divisions, and scars. His fingers aren't long or graceful, they aren't quick, but they are sturdy and competent. He knows that when giving a vaccine, or laying bandages, or stitching up a scar, then he has to be precise.

Because he understands what one small slip up could mean.

Virgil is too aware of consequences. That's always been his problem.

The dark splatters of oil and grease that usually coat his hands are often counterbalanced by small flecks of paint. His artistry hides behind worn nails. Now and again, when he's in the mood, paint lights up his fingerprints with a dash of colour. Even if his hands don't look elegant at all, they can still create magic. Fingers dance across ivory keys and release melodies from his mind. Blue veins strain to escape skin as he concentrates on doing justice to the classics.

These hands balance paint brushes as carefully as they balance 'Two in the sky. They pull art and music from thin air, they know how to save a life, and they are pretty darn good at giving hugs. These hands comfort, they create, and they hold things together.

These hands are as kind as the man they belong to.

ooooo

These hands are young.

The fact that he still secretly believes what that fortune teller once told him about these hands is homage to his naivety. Every now and again, he'll look down at the lines, crisscrossing in their mismatched way, and think about what she said. He'll then go on to wonder how he'll have two wives and six children when all he wants to do is fly his rocket.

These hands are small and soft, unblemished, driven by emotion. Not by thought, they haven't quite latched onto that yet. He wears his heart on his sleeve, his emotion on his hands. They clench tightly in anger, bitten nails digging into skin. When he's upset, they tremble. In embarrassment, his fingers curl. They rub against one another when he's nervous.

He wonders why the others can read him so well, but all they have to do is look at his hands.

These hands are trusting, youthful, _impulsive_. They have so much more to learn, yet have seen more than a person his age ever should have. These hands have had to make _decisions._ Impactful decisions. Ones that could have killed him. Small, childlike hands, were once put in charge of destroying 'Five and his brother with it. They weren't ready for that.

But still, the innocence hasn't left Alan. Not yet.

There's a burn on his left palm. A splash of vicious colour on pale skin. It's a reminder that he's _not_ invincible. Because there are too many times that he's thought that, and only now he's realizing that's not true. But these hands still have so much potential. Every day they are being shaped by those around them, they are learning, growing.

Alan is being guided by hands, and one day, his will guide too. They already guide people from danger zones. His hands are always ready to reach forward. They help survivors and comfort victims, that's what he's most proud of. Not that he can fly a rocket, or win every video game, but that his hands _help_ people. Alan never wants to lose that.

These hands are as earnest as the boy they belong to.

ooooo

These hands are pulled from the water, shriveled, like they've suddenly aged. He knows how it works. It's just the keratin absorbing water, but still, it never fails to amuse him. His hands are used to it. In fact, they are almost always in a permanent state of being 'pruned', as he likes to call it.

His skin gleams bronze in the sunlight. Droplets of water fall from the ends of his fingers as he moves. They are thin and nimble, like his body, but they know how to cut through water like a razor blade. These hands have been pushed to their limits. They propel him, they are tireless, without them he is unbalanced. The way the water rushes through his fingers, as it glides gently over his skin – _that_ is a feeling Gordon will never forget.

Freckles are splattered across these hands, as many to make up John's beloved galaxy. They are dots born by the sun, and he's grown rather fond of them. Mostly because it means he's starting anew. They cover the old skin, the scarred skin, the skin split by broken bones. It's skin that had to be grafted on to hold him together. His hands fought to repair themselves even when he had no will left to live.

Gordon's proud of his hands, because in their own little way, they kept fighting. They're scarred like the rest of him, but it doesn't matter. It was the first thing that he moved, that left index finger, with the little freckle in the shape of a star. Perhaps it was his hands that kept him going, that built him back up again.

Gordon's left hand is stronger than his right. It always has been, because he's a left hander. He likes that. It makes him different _._ His handwriting may be messier, and he's always been slightly dyslexic when it comes to numbers, but for some reason, he's always thought it made him special. Lucy was a left hander too. Perhaps these hands are her hands.

Gordon's hands are the most well used part of his body. When he talks, he gestures, arms flinging wildly in infectious exuberance. When he tells stories, he has to act it out, it makes people laugh.

Gordon's kinesthetic. He needs to touch to understand, he needs to _do_ to be able to learn. Physical contact is essential. These hands are essential. There was a time when he thought he'd never use these hands again. But he _can._

These hands are survivors, just like the man they belong to.

ooooo

These hands have been through a lot. Worn fingers and calloused knuckles carry the weight of a life thrown into responsibility far too soon. Every faded scar, every groove, every bump, or patch of discolored skin, it all tells a story. Some are good stories, some are bad, he doesn't remember it all. Who could?

Then again, there's that freckle that sits right above the life line on his left hand… Now _that_ holds a story. He remembers how her lips traced the length of his arm before stopping right on that mark. She held her tongue there and looked up at him with those tantalizing eyes. It is a moment frozen in time, etched into his memory by one small dot on his skin.

But yes, these are hands that have caressed the faces of women. They have held their fair share of beer bottles, and collided with many walls in fits of youthful anger. But those times are gone. They are warped and distant memories of a boy who didn't quite understand the weight of the world.

Now Scott feels he understands it a little better.

A line of ink is smudged down his right palm. An indent on an index finger is a reminder of how much paperwork he's got left to sign. These hands are trapped, for now, in a duty he finds monotonous and impractical. But it is instilled in him to do his duty, so he doesn't complain.

After all, it's made better by the thought of getting his hands on 'One. The excitement never – and will never – leave as his fingers contract around the controls, or brush confidently over the dashboard. Even If he closes his eyes his fingers would still know what to do. They fit naturally up there. Experts in the sky, calm under pressure.

That is not where his hands belong most, however. No. They've always belonged somewhere more important.

These hands once steadied a young Alan as he learnt how to ride a bike. With one hand on his brother's back, the other wrapped tightly around the cool metal of the handle bars, Scott had never felt more competent. Alan had been scared, but with Scott's hands so near, his little brother had unwavering faith. So did Scott. It was letting go that was the hard part.

Without hesitance, these hands had defended John in school. He'd always remember the day when his fist had rammed into the nose of a forgettable peer. His knuckles came away bruised and bloody, as did the kids nose, but at least it hadn't been John. John had been angry of course, but it was better than seeing him injured.

It was the same when, effortlessly, these hands had fixed Virgil's tie as he got ready for the school dance. He'd straightened Virgil's jacket and moved that one piece of unruly hair, distracting himself from the fact his little brother was growing up.

These hands had always been busy with Gordon. Whether it was holding him back from running onto the street, or trying to entertain him to gain his ever wandering attention. More recently, these hands had held Gordon's after his accident. They had lifted his brother when his legs failed, they steered him when he wanted to give up, they cheered when he finally swum again.

These hands had led, clapped, helped, and hindered. They wiped away tears and mud, broken up fights, bandaged up scrapes. These hands had been _there_ for them. _Always._ They still are.

These hands are as strong as the man they belong to.

ooooo


	2. Epilogue: Kayo

_Extra piece for Intelligentgravity because I rudely forgot Kayo! x_

 _ooooo_

These hands are _fighting_ hands.

If they aren't clenched into fists then she hasn't really started her day. They are as rough and ready as any of her siblings, because one things for sure, she isn't a princess. Her nails are cut short to avoid scratching herself – or one of the boys – during training. Manicures, nail polish - it means nothing to her. It doesn't mean that she disregards other girls for liking it, she's proud of them for knowing what they like. It's just not _her_ style.

Because Kayo knows her own style as well as she knows her mind, as well as she knows her _hands_. Her cuticles are pushed down too low, and bits of skin hang off the side of her index finger, but it doesn't matter. Appearance _doesn't_ matter. These hands aren't just skin and bone; they are her instrument, her weapon.

These hands have got her through dire situations. They've fought off the Hood; they've landed a sabotaged _fire flash_ , and most impressive of all, they've won against Scott Tracy in a boxing match. Nowadays he's the only one that's enough competition for her, and that makes her _happy._ Not just because it means she's good – but because it means she's a _part_ of something.

Once, these hands had to fend for themselves. That's what Kayo has been conditioned to feel, that she _has_ to be independent, that she can't ask for any help. So these hands are not trusting. As much as she wants them to be, it takes a _long_ time for her to let anyone in. It took long enough with the boys.

Especially since, when she looks down, she sees the _Hood's_ hands. Her dark skin is nothing like his, but she can still feel that same blood pulsing through her veins. These hands remind her of him, and she _despises_ that. It reminds her of the lie, that she still isn't _quite_ able to be truthful with the boys. Her brothers. Her _family_.

When she looks down at her hands, she wants to be reminded of _them,_ not the Hood. So she's trying now, to be more open.

These hands had once been lost, thin, afraid. Bruised for the wrong reasons, desperate, _lonely._ But she doesn't like to look back on those times. Unless to see how much she's grown. Now these hands fly _Shadow._ They are in charge of covert operations for International _Rescue._

So yes, Kayo knows how to fight, and she knows how to fight _well_. But that's not all that makes her. Kayo _isn't_ just her hands. There is so much more to her than what she does.

She's part of a family now, one that she – with these hands – will protect at any cost.

These hands are as resilient as the woman they belong to.


End file.
